Deadly Attractions
by DreamInVintage
Summary: Clove is insane and deadly. Cato is twisted and lethal. They've both been training for the Hunger Games ever since they could walk. And as long as they don't get distracted, as long as they keep their eyes on the prize, both of them have what it takes to win... It's a match made in heaven.
1. Chapter 1

**Summary: Clove is insane and deadly. Cato is twisted and lethal. They've both been training for the Hunger Games ever since they could walk. As long as they don't get distracted, and keep their eyes on the prize, both of them has what it takes to win. It's a match made in heaven.**

**WARNING: This is not fluff. It's not butterflies and rainbows. Clato, in my opinion, is not all fluffy and gorgeous and fuzzy and warm. It's very twisted and angsty and co-dependent, but it's still something beautiful, and I can't get enough of it. (I swear I'm not crazy!) XD**

Clove smirks.

"Got you now," she drawls out lazily, holding the knife to her opponent's neck. Lenna's body goes limp.

Clove gently presses the knife against the pulse in Lenna's neck, slowly sliding it back and forth, not hard enough to break the skin, but hard enough to freak Lenna out.

"Crazy bitch," Lenna snarls.

A thin line of blood appears on her neck. Lenna's eyes close in fear and defeat. Her body goes slack. Clove just chuckles. It's all too easy. She presses the knife in a little harder, just for show, before pushing Lenna off her in disgust. She dries the blood off her knife with Lenna's shirt. Lenna lies on the ground, humiliated, the blood trickling down her neck.

Clove inspects her knife, making sure none of Lenna's filthy blood remains on it. This knife is one of her favorites. The whole training center is silent. Students from ages 12 to 18 are standing in a circle around her and Lenna, watching. Clove loves the attention.

She tosses her knife in the air, spins in a couple circles, and catches it with her eyes closed. The gasps of the crowd egg her on. She does it again, with three knives this time.

So Clove likes to show off. Is that a crime?

She slowly opens her eyes, all three knives in her hand. She makes sure to glance around the whole massive training center, staring each person dead in the eye before she speaks.

"Anyone else want to challenge me?" She asks in a bored tone. No one makes a sound.

Lenna's one of the most advanced 18-year-olds in the training center. Clove is a year her junior. No one wants to mess with Clove.

"Anyone?" Clove purposefully draws the word out.

No one in the sea of people answers.

She turns to Lenna. Lenna looks so pathetic. Clove can't believe she had to fight her. It's almost an insult to her ego, that Lenna was the best fighter the district could come up with to match her. Lenna's standing shakily on her legs, leaning heavily against a wall. Her eyes are narrowed with hatred. She's breathing hard through her nose. Her face shines with sweat.

Clove isn't even tired.

She flings the three knives she holds in her hands at Lenna. They embed themselves into the wall. She misses purposely – killing another potential tribute in the training center is illegal.

Knife #1 has stuck to the wall right above Lenna's head. Knife #2 is in between Lenna's third and fourth finger. Knife #3 has grazed her cheek, ripping open the skin, and blood seeps out of the wound. The crowd gasps again.

Clove stares at Lenna, cocking her head. Lenna's cheeks are flushed with humiliation and anger. The cheek wound looks pretty bad – it might need stitches. Clove hopes it needs stitches. Lenna's a bitch.

Lenna shakily pushes herself off the wall, and walks out of the training center, shoulders hunched, and body shaking. It's the most pathetic thing Clove has ever seen.

She turns her attention back to the crowd. "Anyone?" She calls in a sing-song voice.

No one.

She turns her attention to a training assistant. The assistant's eyes are blown wide with shock. Clove resists the urge to strangle him. God, these people call themselves potential tributes? They're bringing shame to District 2. They feel too much emotion, show too much emotion. They're all too human.

"So," she says to the assistant, her voice echoing in the massive room. "I guess this means I'm this year's female tribute, huh?"

The assistant shakily asks, "Does anyone else want to challenge Miss Emerson?"

Nearly everyone looks at the ground, and Clove sneers. They're all pathetic. Every single person in this room is pathetic. No one is brave enough to challenge her.

"Lucky me," Clove drawls out. She shifts her weight onto her front leg, and the crowd flinches. Clove laughs harshly. She loves this feeling of power. Clove saunters to the edge of the stage, and jumps onto the ground. Everyone near her backs away, frightened.

The assistant begins some shaky applause, which soon grows louder and louder as the crowd joins in. Clove mock-bows, and heads for the exit. She has no interest in seeing the boys compete. Clove already knows who's going to become this year's male tribute.

She hears a particular set of footsteps behind her, and smirks. _Speaking of this year's male tribute…_ Clove lazily flicks her least favorite knife at her follower, not looking back. She doesn't hear a thud, so she assumes he sidestepped her attack. Damn. She's really getting predictable.

But so is he. Clove knows the hand's going to come before he even tries to strike her. She ducks quickly, and laughs when she hears him hit air. She turns around, a lazy grin on her face.

"You're this year's tribute," her stalker says. He towers over her, at 6'2.

Clove quirks an eyebrow. "Is that such a surprise?"

"No." The boy says. "I knew you would be. I'm glad. I can't wait to kill you in the arena, to see the life drain out of your green eyes, to see the fight seep out of your body."

"Trust me, Cato. The feeling is mutual."

They both flash an expression at each other. Not a smile, not really. It's more like a baring of teeth.

"You're too predictable," Cato says easily. "I knew exactly when you were going to throw that knife, and where you were hoping to strike."

He sidesteps suddenly, and Clove's brow furrows. Damn it. She hates wasting her knives.

"See?" He smirks. "I knew you were going to throw that knife too."

Clove scoffs, then turns around and keeps walking towards the exit. She hears him follow. After five seconds, she calls, "Don't even bother, Cato. I know you're going to try to slam me against the wall in a few seconds. I'll easily dodge your attack. You need to change up your timing, and then maybe you'll be able to get me."

He curses.

When she reaches the door, she turns around. Her eyes meet his. Even though he's almost a foot taller than her, she still feels superior to him. His lips quirk up. "What?" He asks.

She narrows her green eyes. "Make sure to win your fight today. I can't wait to kill you in the arena. I'll give the audience a show." She winks.

He leans over, so his breath ghosts over her forehead, ruffling her hair. "I wouldn't miss it for the world, Emerson."

She turns around and walks out the door.

Her trainer is waiting for her outside. They begin walking at a brisk pace.

"I'm assuming you fought today?" He asks coldly.

She nods. "Of course, Damen. I've been training for this my whole life."

He growls. "Damn it, Clove! I want you to wait another year. You're only seventeen. We all know Cato's going to win today and become the male tribute this year. And you both are very talented. So we should send a weak female tribute for District 2 this year, and Cato will win. Then next year, when you're eighteen, we'll send you. That way, our district will be guaranteed to win two years in a row. We've gone over this."

"Yes," Clove says coolly. "But I don't care. I'm volunteering this year because I'm going to be the one who kills Cato Evans. And I'll be the first seventeen year old volunteer District 2 has seen in a few decades."

"Stupid bitch," Damen growls. "You don't care about our district at all. You should try to bring honor to the district, not honor to yourself."

Clove chuckles. "Have faith in me, Damen. I'm going to win the Hunger Games this year. I'm volunteering. I won the fight today."

Damen rolls his eyes. "Of course you won the damn fight. You're the best. Everyone knows it. So stop showing off and wait for next year, alright? Talk to the trainers and let Lenna volunteer this year. God, I invest all this time into training you, and this is how you repay me?"

"No," Clove replies simply. "And this is a good thing. It'll bring you glory, too. You're the one that trained me, after all."

Damen is silent.

Clove smirks. "Trust me."

Damen rubs his eyes tiredly. He's only twenty-one, but he's so lethal and wise that he appears much older. He won the Hunger Games three years ago, and has tutored Clove ever since she was a child. He taught her all she knows. "Go do whatever you want, Clove. I'm sick of listening to your bullshit," he says. He sounds exhausted. "I'm going to go practice in the training center. Possibly kill someone because of how frustrated you're making me."

She nods.

Clove makes her way home slowly, enjoying the sunlight. She's too pale, and she's hoping the sun will tan her skin. In certain lights, Clove looks like a ghost.

She reaches her front door, and puts her thumb up to the scanner. After a second, the scanner recognizes and identifies her. The door unlocks with a satisfying click. As Clove steps in, the speaker above her head says, in a voice programmed to sound like her parents, "Welcome home, Miss Emerson."

Clove steps inside and shrugs her light jacket on the stairs. She decides to not train today, a reward for her accomplishment.

Clove grins. "I'm going to be a tribute," she says proudly. She's known it all her life, but it's not true until now, and God, does it feel good. She takes a device off the wall, and says into it, slowly, "Hello, Father and Mother. I am going to be a tribute in this year's Hunger Games." She presses save, and programs it so that when her parents come home, this recording will play for them.

Clove realizes she's starving. She goes into the kitchen and takes out the food tablet. She turns it on, drumming her fingers impatiently as it warms up. When it finally does, she says loud and clear, "Menu". The tablet screen instantly displays all the food they have in the house. Using her finger, she scrolls through the choices, until she decides on a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Clove's not really one for fancy food.

She taps the picture of the sandwich, and waits patiently. A few moments later, her butler appears with a tray.

"Hello, Miss Emerson," he says politely.

She gives him a nod.

"You requested a peanut butter and jelly sandwich?"

Another nod.

Her butler puts his tray down in front of her. On it is a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a glass of wine.

She frowns. "Did I ask for wine?"

A bead of sweat rolls down the butler's face. "No, madam, but I thought after today's accomplishment, you might want to celebrate."

Clove nods. So he's heard, too. A sense of pride floods her, but she doesn't let it show. "Thank you, Butler."

He nods. "And your clover, madam." He sets a four-leaf clover on her plate.

It's stupid, but, ever since Clove was little, with every meal she had, a four-leaf clover was served with it. As her real name was Clover, her parents thought it would hold some sentimental meaning. Also, four-leaf clovers represented good luck. And Clove was very, very lucky.

She nods her approval. "You are excused, Butler."

He bows, then retreats.

Clove looks around to make sure no one's watching, then rips the crust off the sandwich. It's been a personal embarrassment of hers that she can't eat the crust of bread. Ever. The taste of it makes Clove gag. Clove doesn't tell anyone this, because, well – how childish is that? No. So Clove keeps it a secret.

She throws the crust outside. Let the birds have it. Or the homeless children roaming the district. She doesn't really care.

Clove finishes her sandwich, then takes her clover into the elevator. She presses the little gold button with the word "four" on it. Underneath the button, printed on a small strip of metal, are the words: "Clover's Room. Library. Theater. Training Room. Weapons Room." The elevator _dings, _and Clove steps out onto the fourth floor. She walks down a few corridors before coming to her massive bedroom. Clove picks up the book on her nightstand. Since her seventeenth birthday, she's kept all her clovers pressed in it. When Clove was fifteen, she knew she wasn't going to volunteer at eighteen years old like everyone else. Clove was going to be special. She was going to stand out. At age sixteen, Clove knew she wasn't ready yet. But next year, she would be. So when Clove was seventeen, she started saving all her clovers. She knew this would be the last year she'd be spending at her parent's house. When she's eighteen, she'll be living in Victor's Village.

Clove would die if anyone knows she keeps the clovers. It's so sappy and mushy and not like her.

After firmly pressing the clover in between the book's pages, Clove decides to go for a swim. She walks out of the room, and goes down the stairs to the third floor. Clove goes inside the Swimwear Room, and quickly changes out of her training clothes. She looks at all her swimsuits. Hmm. Which one for today? In the end, she settles on a deep green bikini that brings the color out in her eyes. She walks out the room, changed, and heads down the hallway to the indoor swimming pool.

As soon as she walks in, she's faced with the menu. Clove bites her lip. _Decisions, decisions. _

She's torn between the beach at daytime and a lagoon in the jungle. In the end, she chooses the beach. It's sunny and bright, and Clove thinks she deserves to relax with little plastic umbrellas in her drinks. Clove taps the "Beach" option, and the screen tells her to wait while everything is being prepared. When the loading bar finally says "Loading 100% Complete", the doors to the small room Clove was in opens. Clove steps out, and she's instantly relaxed. Sand surrounds the pool, and there's a bunch of beach chairs. Palm trees are everywhere. The smell of sea salt and fresh air fills the room. The walls and ceiling are designed to look like she's outside. Her father has even designed the room so that it projects children running by or people tanning.

Clove jumps in the pool, shivering at the delightful cold. She touches the bottom and grins – it's covered with sand. Clove makes a mental note to thank her father for creating such realistic simulations of the environment. It really does feel like she's in the ocean. She grabs a tube and lays in it, fully intending to relax today. She looks up at the ceiling and watches synthetic clouds drift by. They can even produce rain every now and then. She watches a cloud that looks like one of her throwing knives. It slowly morphs until it looks less like a knife and more like a face. _What?_ Clove squints her eyes, trying to see who it looks like.

It's… it looks like. Damn, it looks really familiar.

And then it hits Clove. Sputtering with rage, she flips out of her tube on accident, and falls into the pool. She surfaces a second later, her cheeks flaming. Clove spits out a mouth full of salt water. _God, that was so embarrassing. No one better have seen that. I'll kill them._

She looks at the face. It seems to be smirking at her. Stupid cloud-face.

She jumps out of the pool, intending to take a shower and clean up.

Clove looks up one more time. Cato's face smirks down at her.

_God I'm losing it. Comparing Cato Evans to a cloud? What's wrong with me?_

She mutters angrily to herself and leaves the room, banging the door behind her.

Clove really hopes Cato won the fight. She can't wait to kill him.

**Yay! My first multi-chapter fic! And it's Clato too!**

**As always, pretty pretty please review, just so I can see how I did and if I should continue this story or not.**

**Kthxbai.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thanks for the support guys! Sorry for the wait, here's Chapter 2. It's shorter than the other chapters will be.**

They're all gathered in the town square. Clove is standing in the section marked off for 17-year olds, bored out of her minds. The announcer has been droning on for about half an hour about the history and honor of the annual Hunger Games. After they are shown a documentary on the Hunger Games created by the Capital, the announcer finally moves on. His hair, eyebrows, and mustache are all dyed a violent shade of purple, and his hands have a blue tinge to them. He has altered his cheekbones so they stick out of his face oddly – it looks like they're broken. He keeps fidgeting in his ridiculous jingling shoes.

"And now," the announcer says, and the crowd falls silent. "For this year's tributes!"

A cheer rises up through the crowd, they're all excited to witness the "reaping", even though everyone knows this year's tributes have been decided long before.

"Ladies first," the announcer smirks, and sticks his hand in the bowl. He stirs the papers around for so long that Clove is itching to fling a knife into his sorry hand. Finally, the announcer pulls a strip out. He opens it, and smiles in what is supposed to be a mysterious way. It just makes Clove want to strangle him.

He clears his throat. "Pierson Landon."

A tiny girl walks up, no older than fourteen. She has her hair piled on top of her head in a ridiculous fashion, and is wearing layers of makeup. As she steps on the stage, she smiles and waves and blows kisses. The crowd goes wild. Clove rolls her eyes. The child is so naïve.

The announcer waits until the applause dies down, and asks, "Are there any volunteers as this year's tribute for District 2?"

A path to the stage has already been cleared for Clove, and she smirks. "I volunteer," she calls out.

The announcer grins hugely, sunlight glinting off his white teeth. "Perfect!" He booms, and Pierson makes her way off the stage, still laughing and waving to the cameras.

Clove strides up on the stage, and is met with the announcer's cheery face. "Why, hello! And what's your name?"

She squares her shoulders. From this moment on, she needs to be tough. No weaknesses. She stares straight at the camera, her eyes cold and unforgiving. "Clove Emerson. District 2."

The announcer seems a little unnerved by her. "And, uh, how old are you, Miss Clove?"

Clove turns to gaze out at the crowd. "Seventeen," she answers coolly, and the announcer lets out an exaggerated gasp. "Seventeen!" He exclaims. "My, my, District 2 hasn't had a seventeen year old in quite a while."

Clove doesn't answer.

The announcer pastes a smile on his face. "Well, next we have our male tributes!" With a dramatic flourish, he sticks his hand inside the glass bowl, and pulls out a thin slip. Opening it, he reads, "Rancon Martedson!"

A tall, skinny boy parts through the crowd and comes up on stage. He looks about sixteen, and he's wearing a silk suit. His hair has been gelled up into a ridiculous spiky fashion, and his cheeks are flushed with pleasure at being called out.

Clove is disgusted. All these kids being chosen – Pierson and Rancon – are idiots. Their parents are rich and the children are rich and they've never lifted a weapon in their whole entire lives. They've never trained, never dreamed of representing District 2, never shed blood, and in Clove's mind, that is horrifying. People like Pierson and Rancon are called up to the stage, wave and smile for the cameras, and then are sent down when the pre-determined tributes come up. What a waste of time.

Rancon is waving and carefully touching his head to make sure his hair is staying in place. Clove hates him. He's too skinny – he wouldn't last a second in a fight.

"Any male volunteers for District 2?" The announcer asks cheerfully.

"I volunteer!" A male voice rings out, and Clove rolls her eyes. Cato's obviously made his voice deeper and huskier and…growlier for the cameras and audience and other tributes watching, and it sounds absolutely ridiculous. Apparently, she's the only one who thinks so, because the people standing next to Cato nearly wet their pants as they scramble to get away from him.

"Come on up! Come on up!" The announcer says, still smiling. He must be new – there's no way District 2's old announcer would have been this…cheery.

Cato boldly steps on the stage, and the female population of District 2 goes wild. Cato silences them with a look.

"Well, what's your name, young man?" The announcer asks, then gulps as he realizes just how much Cato towers over him.

"Cato Evans. Eighteen." Cato's voice seems to be emanating from his chest, and it sounds so absurd that Clove just wants to kill herself. Cato's show for the cameras is pathetic.

"Great. Great! Two volunteers this year from District 2!"

"There are two volunteers every year," Cato's chest rumbles, and the whole crowd (mainly the girls) laughs, even though what he said wasn't funny.

The announcer forces on a smile, and ignores Cato. "Good now! Well, ah, shake hands! Yes! Here we are, the two tributes of District 2!"

Cato turns and looks at Clove for the first time, and she locks eyes with him. He is cold and ice-blue, and she is a deadly, venomous green. They both smirk slightly, and Clove extends her hand. He engulfs it in his enormous one.

Cato chokes her hand in his, squeezing the life out of it. Clove quirks an eyebrow. She can't believe Cato's participating in such child's play. Physically, he's much stronger than him – she knows that. When Cato grinds Clove's hand's bones together, it doesn't intimidate her. It annoys her a lot. Of course he can exert more force. But she's the strongest overall. She has her knives.

Cato just grins and looks down at Clove, silently mocking her. She just sighs. Crushing her hand doesn't do anything to tip the scales in Cato's favor. Clove purposefully shifts slightly, letting the hem of her shirt ride up so Cato can see the three knives Clove has tucked in the waist of her jeans. A warning.

He notices the movement and his eyes dart to the sharp blades. His smile widens, and his eyes light up. "Can't wait," he mouths at Clove, then chuckles.

She narrows her green eyes in frustration and tugs her hand out of his. It's hot – Cato's palms are burning hot compared to her icy ones.

"And there you have it, ladies and gentlemen!" The announcer says. "District 2's two tributes for the 74th Annual Hunger Games!"

The crowd goes wild and the cameras zone in on Cato and Clove. Clove looks at a camera dead on, and then quirks her lips up, just a little.

**Don't forget to review and leave feedback! :)**

**Kthxbai.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Thanks for being patient with waiting, guys! Finals are coming next month, and my teachers are already forcing loads of crap on us -_-. I am so drained and tired, but hopefully this chapter can live up to expectations. Thanks for all the reviews, favorites, and feedback!**

***sigh* I hate saying this, but... This chapter is a bit of a filler. I know, I'm sorry, but I felt it was necessary to further develop the characters.**

Cato smirks obnoxiously as he kicks his feet up on the table.

"Didn't think you'd actually make it," Clove says conversationally. "I actually had my money on Farias. I was pretty sure that he would've been this year's tribute."

Cato laughs - a deep, rumbling sound that echoes in the empty train compartment. "That little shrimp? I snapped him like a twig. He wouldn't have stood a chance in the arena."

"Ha. And you do?"

The smirk is back in place on Cato's face. He leans across the table, too close for Clove's liking. She fights the urge to pull back. "Sweetheart," he taunts. "We'll see who's cocky when we're in the arena, okay? When my sword is sticking out of your chest? But for now, we're all friends here, no?" He winks and leans back into his chair, popping a grape into his mouth. "This is really fresh fruit," he comments. "Must've been imported straight from District 11."

Clove grits her teeth. She _hates_ this, hates how Cato can appear so calm and relaxed. She hates his cockiness. She hates that he knows how to push all her buttons. Clove hates Cato for being able to get inside her head.

She smooths her emotions down. _Show nothing, show nothing, show nothing,_ she chants mentally. Clove can't let Cato win with his little mind games.

She forces a lazy grin on her face and takes an orange from the bowl of fruit in front of her. She peels it quickly, with long, nimble fingers, and pops it in her mouth. "I've had fresher fruit than this," she says with a shrug.

Cato's eyes glint dangerously - it's a challenge, and he knows it - but before he can open his mouth, Damen walks in. He's wearing all black - a leather jacket, black jeans, and combat boots. His jaw is set and determined, his eyes are steely and gray.

"Hello Damen," Clove greets her trainer - now her and Cato's mentor. Damen nods in her direction.

"Sup, D?" Cato grins, and Clove wants to stick a knife in him. What a cocky asshole.

"How many times have I told you not to call me that?" Damen asks tonelessly, but Clove sees the storm brewing in his eyes. Cato is seriously pissing Damen off.

Cato grins cheekily, "Apparently not enough, D."

"That's real cute, Cato. Let's see how cheeky you can be when you're starving to death in the arena, not knowing who you can trust, if you'll get out alive."

Cato barks out a laugh. "D, maybe you felt like that once. But I know I'm gonna take this home. Not gonna even starve. I have a plan."

Damen just sighs. "I can't wait until you finally die, Cato. You're a real fucking nuisance."

Cato just eats another handful of grapes, and holds eye-contact with Damen, grinning.

Clove doesn't understand Cato. He's a brutal killer one second, then a spoiled brat. Clove has seen Cato literally scare the shit out of people, yet he can annoy them so much that they'll pay him to go away. One day, he's gonna lose control of his personalities, make a fatal mistake, and die. And Clove will laugh. A guy like Cato... There's no way he'll be able to win. Cato's too bipolar.

Damen turns to Clove. "You have a strategy?"

"Yeah. Find the knives. Kill everyone not in the alliance. Then go for District 4. Then District 1. Save this asshole over here," she nods towards Cato, "I'll save him for last. Give the audience a show. Finally, I'll finish him off. Live in Victor's Village forever. Terrorize small children with my knives during my old age," Clove finishes with a smirk.

"That's real cute, Princess," Cato mumbles around his grapes. "You gonna arrange your manicure and bubble bath before or after you finish District 4?"

Clove's hand immediately moves to the waistband of her pants, where her three knives are still concealed, but Damen forcibly pulls it back. He's known her too long - trained her ever since she was a child, and he knows that if he lets Clove throw that knife, she'll be aiming to kill.

Cato just snorts. "Come on Princess, hit me with your best shot. You think you're the only one who came prepared? Please," he scoffs and reaches into his jacket. Cato pulls out what seems to be a long stick, and Clove stifles a snort. He honestly thinks a block of wood can defend himself from her knives?

Cato wags his finger. "Just wait until you see this." He pushes a button, and a huge, sharp blade flicks out. It catches Clove by surprise, and she inhales sharply. Cato's smirk widens. "My trainer gave it to me before the reaping. You honestly think you were the only one to bring you're weapon? Bring it!" He stands up, holding the sword in front of him, taunting her.

Clove's eyes narrow. Screw Damen, Cato is _not_ getting away with this. She is going to kill this bastard once and for all. He's seriously pissing her off. Clove snatches up her knives in her hands and draws her wrist back, preparing to kill. Looks like this year, the Hunger Games will only have 23 tributes.

Before Clove can fling her knives, she sees Damen's sword swing towards her out of her peripheral vision, and she ducks so it won't slice her head off. It was a fatal mistake. Damen's thick arms pull her into a headlock, and Clove huffs, thoroughly embarassed. She reaches for a knife, ready to sink one into her mentor's flesh, but to her horror, she realizes the knives are gone. Damen clicks his tongue, and shows the three blades he holds in his left hand. "Faster reflexes, Clove," he grins, then stows her three knives into his jacket and releases her.

He then moves to Cato, clashing their swords together with a huge CLANK, and Cato just smiles - he's excited. Cato moves to stab Damen, but Damen does a complicated block and then thrusts his elbow into Cato's gut, bringing Cato to the ground, groaning,

Damen stands up and looks at the two tributes - both on the ground, both thoroughly embarrassed. He looks utterly unimpressed. "You two are fucking kids. And here I thought I was dealing with responsible adults. The Hunger Games are an honor, not a fucking joke. Clove, control your anger and improve your reflexes. Also, your movements are too predictable. Come up with something new. Impress me. Cato, you need to get serious. Grow the fuck up and act eighteen. Stop provoking your allies. You're both overconfident. Both of you are good, but no where near my level. Stop acting like hot-shots. And get your tempers out of control. What did we teach you in District 2? Show no fucking emotion. Feelings are for the weak. Stop taunting each other like five-year olds on the playground. Act like a tribute for once. When you get your heads screwed on right, then come ask me to mentor you all." Damen's gaze pierced through both tributes. "Now I need a fucking smoke. You two are jokes." He sighs, then turned around and started walking out of the room.

"Oh, and Clove?" Damen says.

Clove clears her throat. "Yes?"

Damen's wrist flicks and sends Clove's knives flying towards her. She instinctively reaches her arm out and catches all three in her hand. "Thanks."

"Treat those right. They're weapons, not toys. You too, Cato."

And with that, Damen strode out of the room.

"Goddammit," Clove growls, picking herself off the floor.

**So... There it is XD. Hope you enjoyed it. Don't worry, there won't be many filler chapters ahead.**

**Please don't forget to review! I'm really nervous on if I got the characters right or not, and I'd love to hear your feedback :)**

**Kthxbai**


	4. Chapter 4

**Merry (early) Christmas, everyone! Hopefully the world doesn't end tomorrow XP. Sorry for the wait, hopefully I can write more over break.**

**Here we go!**

"Well, aren't you just the cutest thing ever?"

_Self control, self control, self control…_

Clove tries, she really tries to calm down, but these…people flocking around her are making her so damn difficult.

"Really, it's a nice change, don't you think?" A woman with atrocious purple teeth comments.

"Usually we get all the…er, big girls from District 2," a man who is even shorter than Clove explains to her. "They're all so _hairy_," he shudders, physically repulsed by the thought, "And so…masculine and muscled. People don't understand how hard it is to dress the District 2 tributes. Making the females look feminine is a right challenge," he titters. "Oh, but _you_. Small, petite…very nice."

There are at least five of them, hovering around her. They're prodding her face, smoothing her hair, tsk-ing at her clothing…

Clove's hands are balled into fists, and one stylist forcibly uncurls her fingers and gasps in horror. "My, my!" He exclaims in an unnaturally high voice. "Oh, your hands! Oh, my dear Somnia, do come here!"

A lady with bright orange hair that's piled up high rushes over, takes a look at Clove's nails, and looks like she's going to faint. "What have you _done_ with them, sweetheart?"

Clove looks at her hands. She doesn't bite her nails or anything, can't really understand what the fuss is about. "What are you talking about?" She asks bluntly.

The man with the falsetto voice explains, "Dear, dear, just _look_ at all these blisters and calluses you have. This simply won't do. And _oh_, is that blood?"

Huh. Damen must have nicked her while handing her the knives.

"We'll be right back," Hair-lady exclaims, and she rushes off with about three other assistants. The rest of them scatter, unsure what to do without their leader.

Clove wants to scream. She sees Damen stroll into the room, looking highly amused.

"Damen!" She calls.

He comes. "Enjoying yourself?"

"Fuck you," she hisses. "Are you sure I can't stab them?"

He winks. "Injuring your stylists? I'm pretty sure that will get you disqualified from the Hunger Games."

"They are turning me into one of them." She enunciates each word, hoping to get some pity. "I've been stripped of all my body hair, scrubbed, and prodded and made fun of. The next thing you know, I'm going to be walking around with blue hair."

"Well, wouldn't that be a sight to see?"

She's desperate. Clove needs to have him help her. "Please," she whines. "Please, just say I can leave. I won't even hurt them, I'll just leave and never come back. I've never asked you for anything, Damen. This is fucking terrible."

He chuckles. "Terrible? Clove, this is high-end right here."

"Yoo-hoo!" A voice calls out, and they both turn their heads to see Somnia, the orange-hair lady walking towards them. In her arms, she's carrying about 15 bottles of lotion. For Clove's hands, she presumes.

Somnia breaks out into a grin as soon as she sees Damen.

"Oh, my dear boy! Why, I remember making you over when you were a tribute!" She winks at Clove. "This man here, he was a real struggle. You wouldn't _believe_ how hairy he was, oh, it took hours just to get it all off. But, in the end, it all worked out, and he's quite a handsome man, no?" Somnia looks about ready to pinch Damen's cheeks, and Clove's getting some satisfaction seeing the flash of terror in his eyes.

"Well, it was nice talking to you, Somnia," he says stiffly, all joking tones wiped from his voice. "If you'll excuse me." Damen swiftly walks away.

Somnia turns back to Clove, and she wants to die.

The Careers can literally make another tribute shit their pants by just glancing at them, but they're still terrified of the stylists.

...

"No." Clove's tired of being nice to them. She's spent the whole day being "styled". She's done. Clove could be practicing with her knives right now.

"Clover, you must."

"It's Clove."

"My dear, you _must_ wear it. Otherwise, it reflects poorly on us," Somnia pleads, while the rest of the stylists nod furiously like the air-heads they are.

"I'm not wearing a fucking dress."

"Such language!"

"I'm wearing the same shirt, pants, and shoes that I was wearing when I came in here."

"But, Clover, you look stunning in it."

Clove leans in to Somnia. "Look, lady," she hisses out. "That dress is uglier than your hairstyle, which is saying a lot. If you force me into that thing, I can tell you that it will be the last thing you ever do. Do you know what I can do with a knife? Because let me tell you, after I'm through with you, your face will look like a fucking Jigsaw puzzle. A Picasso painting."

Somnia huffs, and storms out of the room. The other assistants scurry after her, leaving Clove alone in the small room.

She acts fast. Clove debates ripping off her itchy hospital gown that she's currently wearing, but that would mean she would have to put on the dress that is currently hanging on her chair. It's absolutely hideous. It's poofy and sparkly and green ("To go with your eyes, dear." *insert giggling and laughter and handkerchief waving and a murderous-looking Clove in the corner*) and it looks like something a leprechaun shit out. A gay leprechaun. A gay, drunk-off-his-ass leprechaun.

So Clove keeps the hospital gown on. She can't find her shoes, because the fucking stylists almost clawed them off her feet when they first got a look at her ("Those shoes do _not_ compliment you at all.") and now she has no idea where they are. Screw it. She's running out barefoot.

Clove jumps out of the cot that she's been forced on (she had to lay on it for hours while they examined every inch of her body) and begins slowly padding for the door.

It opens, and Clove curses.

Damen walks in, and a smug Somnia is behind him.

"Why are you here…again?" Clove bites out.

Damen raises an eyebrow. "Your stylist, Somnia, called me. She said you were being…difficult, is that what you said, Somnia?" Somnia, the fucking bitch, nods, smiling. Clove has never hated her stylist more. "Somnia requested my help, as she thought, as your mentor, I might be able to get through to you."

Clove gives Somnia her best death glare, and the woman gulps and shirks away, her orange hair-tower wobbling precariously.

Damen closes the door and comes in, and lets out a low whistle at the dress.

"I hate you," says Clove.

"Not very mature or clever," retorts Damen. "I would expect something more from the female tribute of District 2. But no, I get a call saying that you are throwing a temper tantrum over a dress?"

Clove shrugs. "Go ahead. Give me your best shot. Threaten me. Punch me. You're never going to get me to put that dress on."

Damen just smiles. "Let's talk, Clove. How are you?"

"Terrible."

He ignores her. "Things have been going well today. The other tributes seem pathetic enough, I've checked them out. The food is delightful. My room is very nice… I think I might move to the Capital after mentoring you. Of course, you'll probably drive me mad before the Games are over, but one can always hope, no?"

Clove narrows her eyes. "If this is your way of convincing me to put on that dress, it fucking sucks. It's not even for the Opening Ceremony – they just want me to wear a dress to parade around the fucking building in."

Damen smirks and looks her in the eye. "Oh, I forgot to mention, Cato is done with styling."

"He's done?"

Clove's taken the bait. Damen continues, "Yes. He's wearing a suit."

What. The. Fuck.

"Why?"

"The stylists asked it of him. It's rather nice – it's blue, you know, to match his eyes. The color suits him well. I talked to him shortly before coming here. He says if I see you, to tell you he sends his love, and that he's waiting for your move."

Clove clenches her jaw shut and resists the urge to scream.

No one else would understand. No one but her and Cato.

Every since she was a child, Cato Evans and her were rivals. One year, he crushed a snowman that she made. She shoveled snow off his driveway and into his bedroom. He would pull her braids, tweak her nose, make fun of her aim. She would always try her best to outdo him, but Cato always seemed to have something new up his sleeve. He would always make her feel like an idiot, but she never showed it.

It was always little things that started the competitions. Last month, when all the potential tributes were training for the Games, Clove had shown up to the training center late one day. When she got there, Cato was at her station.

Well, technically, no one had a station. But everyone knew that the knives were Cloves. No one else was allowed to touch them. Cato was standing at Clove's station, fingering one of the knives. As she approached him, he smiled – a big, cheesy grin, and handed her the knife, saying, "You weren't here, so I took the liberty of polishing it for you."

Little things like that, which outsiders would think of as a friendly gesture, really meant the start of a new war. Both Clove and Cato understood the signals as what they really symbolized.

The next day, Cato woke up and found five knives stuck in the mattress – framing his sleeping body. He smiled and removed them, one by one, then brushed his teeth and ate breakfast.

That's the way their relationship was. It was filled with rivalry and competition. The one who did not retaliate against the other, lost the game.

And as for Cato wearing his suit when the stylists told him to – that was a clear signal to Clove. He was starting war with her, presuming that she wouldn't wear the ridiculous outfit that the stylists suggested. He clearly thought he would win this round.

She won't let him win. Can't let him when – not when they're at the Hunger Games, and she needs to be stronger and fiercer than ever.

Clove sighs deeply. "I'm not wearing the heels," she finally says, and Damen nods approvingly.

"I'll tell Somnia." He nods at Clove and leaves the room.

...

"Where were you? I've been looking everywhere." Cato's tone is condescending and Clove has never hated him more.

"Out," she replies simply, not wanting him to know how difficult she was with her stylists.

He eyes her dress. "I see you've decided to play."

She eyes his suit. Huh. Damen was right. Blue does suit him. "I wouldn't miss this game for the world, Evans."

He laughs. "We'll see who will emerge victorious, hmm?"

She tilts her head slightly and smiles. _God, this dress is itchy._

"I heard you had some…trouble with your stylists?" Cato starts, folding his arms.

"You must have been sadly misinformed," says Clove coolly. "If anyone had trouble, it must have been _your_ stylists, who must have had to work their asses off just to get you looking presentable."

"May I remind you that I was done with my stylists hours before you were?" _Is that some sort of amusement in his voice?_

"You may not," Clove bites out. _I won't let him win, I won't let him win._

Cato laughs, and the room reverberates with his glee.

"That dress isn't bad, Emerson," he chuckles. "I didn't know you were hiding a figure underneath your cold exterior."

"Get a good look. This is the last time you'll see it again."

Cato raises his eyebrows and his wine glass. "To the Hunger Games," he says. She clinks her glass against his. "To the Hunger Games," Clove echoes.

Both of them know that The Hunger Games aren't the only games being played here.

**Thanks for reading, guys!**

**Ugh, I'm so excited for Christmas, I can't stop singing Christmas carols! (Oh the weather outside is frightful, but the fire is so delightful, and since there's no place to go... Let it snow, let it snow, LET IT SNOW!) Sorry, I'm really hyper and bored right now XD. I can't wait for presents. And Santa. And cookies. **

**Review and tell me how I did?**

**Kthxbai.**


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